


Second Hand News

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2018, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-retirement Philipp Lahm is in high demand to do half-time analysis and general reporting on the state of affairs in the German National Team. The problem is that no one told ESPN that putting him and Michael Ballack behind the same desk to talk about Germany probably wasn't a brilliant idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Hand News

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).



> Happy...Spring? Happy Spring!
> 
>  
> 
> So while I was doing a bit of research to figure out my supporting cast I learned that apparently Fox has the US rights to the 2018 World Cup? Which, booo :|| And so, enjoy the first and possibly last ever ‘ESPN-wins-bid-to-broadcast-WC2018’ AU. See it as a ‘take that’ to Rupert Murdoch, the slimy worm.

 

 

“Are we sure that this is going to work out? Is it a good idea?”

Bob stares at Taylor. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea? They’re both respected figures, they’re good analysts, they’re former team mates, even.”

Taylor frowns. “I know. That’s the point- wasn’t there some kind of problem back when Michael was playing for the team? Because he was the captain before Lahm, and wasn’t there like, a, a fight or something?”

Bob waves a hand dismissively. “Anything that happened would have been nearly a decade ago and anyway, they are _professionals_. Lahm knows that Michael is part of our team here and he seemed very pleased to take the job. I didn’t get the sense that there was any sort of problem.”

It still seems like they’re forgetting something. But for the life of him Taylor can’t think what it could be. So he shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay.”

 

 

He does text Alexi later, because he can’t get it out of his head.

_T-Man:_

_Hey lalas! Hows things with the other guys? We’re getting ready for the cup we got your friend michael back and we also got philipp lahm did michael ever mention him?_

_Alexi Lalas:_

_Sup bro_

_How u been_

_Whoa nice lahm is valuable af_

_Umm michael talked about him in like team analysis stuff if thats what u mean_

_T-Man:_

_Ok and he didn’t say anything like they werent cool or smthing idk I feel like there was something?_

_Alexis Lalas:_

_Lol no_

_Dw dude im pretty sure I would have remembered if there was something like that_

 

A few days later, right before the preparation for the cup coverage began in full,Taylor would think in hindsight that he probably couldn’t really depend on Alexi Lalas for deep insight into the character of Michael Ballack. But by that point Lahm would be flying in and arriving at ESPN studio in Russia the next day, and there was really nothing that he could have done in any case.

 

\--

 

Objectively, Philipp is ready for what –or rather who- awaits him when he pushes open the door to the conference room set aside for the pre-tournament meet-and-greet. Objectively he knows who he’s going to be working with, and objectively he knows that it’s been almost eight years since the initial bad blood had been spilled, and that for all intents and purposes it should have been long dried.

But when he does push through the door and is met instantly by the infinitely professional but most-definitely cool gaze of Michael Ballack, a lot of those past eight years and everything that they had contained flies out the window and he’s back in South Africa, telling Jogi that he wants to keep the armband and Micha be damned.

It’s not even as if he hasn’t seen Michael since that whole debacle. What with them both still being involved in the affairs of the DFB both at home and abroad, it would have been quite a trick not to have seen each other. And maybe there had been some _words_ said, once or twice. But it’s not even as if he hasn’t played with Michael since then: there had been the charity match a few years ago, to start. And that had been fine. Admittedly, they had been surrounded by old friends and that was always helpful in staying off grudges but. Still.

And he’s pleased to have landed this job, of course. ESPN had seemed keen to get him in and even Michael’s established presence wasn’t going to sway him off of a decent pay cheque and a jaunt over to Russia at the Americans’ expense. ZDF had Kahn to do all the shouting that they needed and Philipp hadn’t quite fancied ITV, the above-average team that England was fielding likely to make the pundits almost unbearably optimistic. And Philipp had never really been one to turn up his nose at the Americans in any situation. ESPN was a good broadcaster with a decent line-up, former national captains and tempestuous pasts aside.

“Michael,” Philipp says with a smile that he hopes doesn’t look strained. He’s only slightly worried about how this little reunion will go. “Good to see you.”

“Philipp.”

They shake hands and Michael makes a comment in German about the job which makes Philipp laugh if mostly for the suddenly cautious look on the faces of the other two that the foreign language brings –Bob and Taylor, he’d done his research into who his colleagues would be here- and it seems as though perhaps this will be nothing more remarkable than a professional engagement with the amusing side trivia that one of his co-workers had once accused him of being-

Well, what exactly had Michael said? Something about backstabbing? A power play? Philipp is almost concerned about the fact that he can’t precisely remember the accusation. It had seemed fairly important at the time. But living well was supposed to be the best revenge, or something like that, even if Philipp wasn’t strictly the aggrieved party with cause for such revenge. It’s all in the past.

This session is really only going to be a short one: a time for the presenters, analysts, commentators, and all the rest of the broadcast team to briefly meet and be introduced to the basic layout of how the content of the pre-match, half-time, and post-match talks were going to go.

It goes smoothly, and Philipp once again allows himself to hesitantly believe that maybe nothing will come of this. Michael’s expression when he had walked through the doors hadn’t been particularly friendly, to be sure, but it hadn’t been explicitly hostile either, which was a welcome departure from a few of their more memorable encounters since 2010. When he’s comfortably ensconced in his hotel room later that evening, fluffy pillows and questionable Russian television dramas all present and accounted for, Philipp starts feeling genuinely excited for the tournament. He’d watched the Euros two years ago from the comfort of his own home, and while that had been nice there was really nothing to compare to actual involvement in an event like this. He would never have been able to stay away from the business for long, even if he had ever intended to. He can easily understand why Michael had gone into analysis after retiring.

 

 

By the time they’re all seated behind the media desk for the full time analysis of Germany’s first match, any good will he may have felt towards Michael has been mostly replaced by simmering irritation. Michael has been being purposefully unhelpful to Philipp, he can just tell. He knows more or less what Michael generally thinks and believes when it comes to football, and Michael has been altering some of his opinions just to come out at odds with the things that Philipp says. Nothing outrageous and nothing even that would be picked up on by anyone who hadn’t spent a good deal of time being captained by Michael, but it’s enough to irritate Philipp because he knows it’s for his benefit. Or rather, his detriment.

He’s actively trying to stop himself from grinding his teeth when Taylor says something about Thomas Müller’s movement, and plays a short clip of him skittering down the wing during a play.

“Your old number, wasn’t it, Michael?” Philipp says, his tone deliberately nasty. It’s a completely unnecessary comment to make, and what’s more, a petty one when packaged up with all the context of the situation that had lead to Michael losing claim to the number thirteen. But Michael has always made Philipp feel slightly petty, which annoys him, and makes it worse.

Michael smiles thinly at him. “As you well remember.” His eyes promise swift return of hostilities.

Maybe the bigger thing to do would have been to _not_ deliberately poke at Michael’s wounds, and Philipp feels slightly put out, for just a minute, that they aren’t going to be getting through this on friendly terms. He does occasionally miss talking to Michael just as two former footballers who had once played for the same team, in aid of the same goal. It would have been nicer –and easier- if they could have stuck to meaningless platitudes and familiar words.

But then again, maybe that wasn’t the easy option anymore. It seemed extraordinarily simple at this point for them to fall into a pattern of barbs and twisting knives.

And furthermore, Michael had started it. So there.

 

 

Michael says, “Playing with two dedicated strikers up front would be a complete break from Germany’s way of going about things, and would _certainly_ be a surprise that _none_ of us would expect.” _You complete idiot,_ is unsaid but tacked on by the accompanying glare.

“It would be a tremendous waste of potential not to play Reus as an out-and-out striker,” Philip says firmly. “He’s been excellent for Dortmund and Germany is hardly strapped for talent in the midfield. Put Reus up top paired with Gӧtze, with the possibility of changing the formation and sending them out to the wings if Gomez is brought on as an impact striker.”

“And you see Müller in the midfield, then,” Bob interjects, bringing a milder tone to the exchange

Philipp smiles wryly. “I see Müller in a lot of places. That is rather his method, isn’t it?”

“Yes well,” Michael drawls, tapping his pen against the desk, “you did play under Guardiola for a time so it’s no surprise you would have picked up his fondness for shuffling your players.”

Philipp bristles, even though he’s not entirely sure how it’s an insult. Really Michael hasn’t said anything other than a simple fact: Philipp has played for Guardiola, and he has been an admirer of his tactics, despite the occasional blip in success rate. Said by anyone else, it could have even been a compliment: Guardiola’s stock is high. But coming from Michael it’s most definitely a dismissal, and Philipp rankles.

“Let’s move on to Group E, shall we?” Bob hauls the show back by the reins, and Taylor launches into enthusiastic praise for what he considers “the most dynamic group by far, Bob, take a look at this-”

Philipp doesn’t like how Michael can still get under his skin. Philipp holds most of the cards in this pointless little war they’re waging, especially with the victory four years ago. But Michael still has this way of looking down his nose at Philipp, his eyes narrowed and accusing, as if Philipp is still some illegitimate usurper instead of a captain whom history would record as a World Cup winner. And Philipp should be able to ignore it, because he knows his worth, he really does, and it should take more than Michael Ballack’s ire to get through that armour.

It’s even more frustrating that once they get through discussing Germany and he stops trying to contradict everything Philipp says, Michael actually has opinions that Philipp agrees with. They’re not actually as much at odds as might be believed, and Philipp wonders if Michael has also picked up on this discrepancy in the subtle feud that has been flaring between them. Maybe Michael agrees with him as much as he agrees with Michael.

 

\--

 

Alexi Lalas is propped up against five or six hotel pillows, watching an unsubtitled Russian nature documentary that he thinks is about climate change (did the Russian government believe in climate change? Mental note to google that later) when his phone rings.

Despite not understanding a word, the documentary is still nice to look at and is currently showing a beautiful, sweeping shot of some rainforest and so Alexi scrabbles about at his bedside table for his phone, not wanting to take his eyes off the television, managing to seize upon it and answer before voice mail kicks in. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Hi! Michael! What’s up?”

“Do you ever run out of enthusiasm?”

“Nope!” Alexi says, with exaggerated excitement in his voice because he knows it’ll wind Michael up. “I’m a twenty-four-seven thrill ride, baby!”

“Please never say that again. Ever again.”

They continue in a similar vein for some time, until the programme ends and Alexi flicks off the television. “Hey, did you call for any particular reason? ‘Cause I’ve got to be up early-ish tomorrow.”

“Oh, no,” Michael says blithely. “But talking to you reminds me that the people I work with aren’t actually all that bad.”

Alexi considers this for a moment. “You know, I know that you meant that as an insult but I’m actually kinda flattered? I am. I’m kinda flattered.”

“I’m not surprised at all that you have taken a compliment from this,” Michael says. “You take a compliment from everything.”

“There you go, dishing ‘em out again,” Alexi says cheerfully. “You’re such a great guy.”

 

\--

 

“And of course, the final match in Group D.” Bob turns to Philipp jovially. “Philipp, you’re the expert on the subject, being one of Germany’s most successful players, what’s your prediction on how they’ll fare?”

“Well,” Philipp says slowly, feeling somewhat defensive on Michael’s behalf, because he is _right there,_ and even if Philipp has been hired as the Germany-specific analyst is still seems a bit of a snub, if unintended, “I do think that Germany will top the group quite easily. But I might be overconfident. You’re sitting next to another expert opinion- Michael did captain our national side through a difficult period of reconstruction. Not to mention winning  Player of the Year several times...in no way unaccomplished.”

Michael is giving him a funny look and Philipp resolutely doesn’t meet his eye, only smiles his media smile.

 

 

Michael corners him later as Philipp is trying to scrape off the layer of paint that the make-up department insists makes his face look presentable under the stage lights.

“’In no way unaccomplished’? Where did that come from?” Michael asks, suspicion in his voice.

“Well, isn’t it true?” Philipp gives him a blank stare.

“You’ve never exactly showered me with compliments before. I would have thought you’d love being named the authority on the German side. What is this, now.”

Philipp shrugs carefully. To be entirely honest he still hasn’t quite been able to figure out where the sudden indignation on Michael’s behalf _had_ come from. “We might have our difficulties but we are still both of the same team, or we were. We should present a united front.”

Michael raises an eye. “And yet you argue with me all the time.”

“No, that’s different,” Philipp says, slightly impatiently. “That’s between you and me. When there’s a third party involved, it changes things. Then I’m on your side.”

Michael laughs almost incredulously. “You have some sort of complex, Philipp.”

“I do _not_. It makes perfect sense.”

Philipp is suddenly very aware of the fact that it’s been ridiculous, this whole time trying to stare Michael down over something that really doesn’t matter anymore. And he gets the feeling that it isn’t just him tired of it: he thinks that Michael might be over everything that had happened as well. Maybe they had both just been dancing to this tune for so long that the rhythm had gotten stuck in their bones.

“I don’t actually dislike you, Micha.” The nickname slips out and Philipp decides to just roll with it, continuing on blithely as if using that name hadn’t rolled back the years in two syllables. “And I don’t think that you actually dislike me, either.”

There’s a thoughtful look in Michael’s eye. “No, I suppose not.”

They fall into silence. Philipp returns his attentions to cleaning his face.

“Do you ever miss it?” Michael asks abruptly.

Philipp looks at him quickly. “Miss what?” (It’s a lie, it’s buying time; he knows exactly what Michael is talking about. How could he not? He misses it every minute that he’s watching Germany on the pitch. He misses the subtle constriction around his upper arm, just tight enough so that he can feel his heartbeat tapping out the morse code, _you are the captain, you are responsible, you are the pulse_. He misses it and he knows that Michael must miss it, too. It’s not a feeling you forget in a hurry.)

He’s actually somewhat gratified when Michael doesn’t bother indulging his diversion, but just looks away and nods, ever so slightly. “I miss it as well.”

There probably should be a spike of guilt there. To know that he had wilfully taken the armband away from Michael. But there isn’t. Philipp has never been one to dwell. Or regret.

It suddenly strikes him that Michael might be one of the few people who understands. Who understands what it feels like to have everything in the world wrapped around your upper arm. It’s funny, that; he had been very caught up in the fact that Michael’s understanding was driving them apart. He had never considered that it might be tying them together, like two magnets spinning around each other, never quite able to line up but always trapped in each other’s fields.

Philipp can’t regret because to regret his actions would be to regret everything that had come afterwards. And Philipp might be a pragmatist but even he could be afforded the slight indulgence not to say that _anyone_ could have captained that team to the end. _He_ had captained that team. And that fourth star is still too freshly stitched above the badge to have lost the thrill when he sees it.

He hopes that it’s the same for Michael. He wants, somewhat childishly, for Michael to be proud. Perhaps not of him in particular, but of what he had done. Surely Germany is still enough of Michael’s team for that.

Philipp feels reckless. He’s always felt slightly reckless when it comes down to this: the two of them. In suits this time instead of kits, and Michael’s ankle isn’t wrapped up in plaster, an almost tauntingly tangible representation of what they both knew: he could no longer step up to the platform.

“Do you remember my goal against Costa Rica, in 2006?” Philipp asks, not bothering to preface the question.

Micha barely blinks. “Of course. The first goal of the tournament.”

“You celebrated that. With me.”

“It _was_ the first goal of the tournament. And it was a good one,” Michael says mildly. There’s no defensive tone in his voice, no excuses for the past that might not mesh well with the present.

Philipp nods. “It was.”

“No false modesty from you, I see,” Michael notes with a small smile.

Philipp only shrugs. “I don’t score many goals. I have to take them where I can.”

“True enough. And you were never quite one for false modesty, in any case.” Michael looks at him, then, really looks at him. Philipp thinks that Michael hasn’t really looked at him since he’d arrived in Russia. But he’s looking at him now. “You know your worth.”

If Michael notices the surprise that Philipp can feel flickering briefly over his face, he doesn’t mention it. They are probably the closest that they’ve ever come to an agreement about what had happened, and here is Michael speaking Philipp’s own thoughts back to him.

“I do,” Philipp says finally, firmly. “Just as you know yours.”

 

 

Germany goes out in the semi-finals. It’s not terribly surprising.

“It is all too familiar,” Michael says in post-match with a wry grin. “At least I no longer have to feel frustrated because we have won it last time, so. Share the wealth, as you say.”

It’s for television but Philipp thinks he means it. Michael has never been as difficult to read as he most likely wishes he were, and there’s sincerity in his voice. And what’s more, Philipp understands the sentiment. If they hadn’t taken home the cup four years ago this semi-final would have just added to the pressure in that funny way against his ribs, squeezing disappointment with the whistle and the dejected players walking slowly off the pitch as the celebrations began around them, ecstatic shouts and cheers that might as well have belonged to another sphere for all they shared in common with the team going home. Philipp remembers those semi-finals from before. He remembers how it had felt to lose. But this feels different. He’s disappointed, to be sure, but it’s easy disappointment. There’s no resentment to it, no despair that that coveted next step was never going to happen, because he can still remember the way the trophy had felt beneath his fingers. The cool metal made hot with _glory,_ or as close to glory as you could get.

Michael doesn’t know how the trophy feels. But Philipp still thinks that something tight in his chest had probably gone loose that day four years ago, as well. Because Michael had been a good captain, despite everything, and good captains never really leave their teams.

So Philipp is nodding, looking at Michael with a smile and an expression that he hopes conveys some of his understanding. “I’m also just relieved we came through without anyone being hurt,” he says, hoping that his timing hasn’t been thrown off by his reverie. “I still do not trust Reus’ ankles.”

“It’ll be back with you soon enough, that what you’re thinking?” Bob jokes, turning in his chair to face Philipp with a smile. The lights on set are beginning to change colour, preparing to signal for the end of the post-match show.

“Statistically, the Germans have won the tournament an average of once every twenty years since 1954,” Philipp says with a smirk. “Not that long to wait in the grand scheme of things, I suppose.” He says it and then realises that he’s actually serious. Philipp doesn’t often think of the future like that, all lain out in a ribbon with milestones marking it every so often, but this is an exception. He’s lifted the trophy and he can see it being lifted again.

Bob is saying something finalising and the music is playing. Philipp turns to smile to the camera as it pans across their faces, and then the coloured lights fade and the work lights come up. He blinks into the comparatively harsh white for a minute, readjusting as the cameramen step down from their stands and people begin milling about.

There’s nothing much for him to do anymore, since Germany’s exit from the competition means that his services as team expert will no longer be needed. He’s about to head over to Bob to give his thanks and farewells, when Michael steps down from his seat and approaches him.

“So...see you in 2034 for the next trophy, then?” Michael asks. Philipp blinks before doing the math. If he didn’t know Michael better he would almost say that his tone was tentative. Perhaps it is. Perhaps this is an olive branch. The final brick in something sturdy.

He extends his hand and Michael takes it. Philipp gives his hand a firm shake. It’s the same handshake he gives opposing captains before kick-off. Michael has earned that, long ago.

“Of course,” Philipp says. “The only question is, will we be behind the desk again or on the touchline?”

Michael raises an eyebrow, a glimmer of a grin playing about the corner of his mouth, and Philipp doesn’t bother not smiling back. “Oh, that’s what you’re thinking, then. Better get to work.”


End file.
